The C Word
by QueenOfTheEra
Summary: Isabella exists between two social spheres. Her whole life she has been pulled in two directions, but it seems that now, age 23, the only way is up. But which path will she take to the top? And will it be Edward Cullen, America's golden boy, who sends her skywards? All she has to do is choose.
1. Chapter 1

**The C Word**

 **Chapter 1. Up**

 **Song suggestions: Chez Chanel by Alexandre Desplat and** **Young Edie in NYC by Rachel Portman**

 _Enjoy!_

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My great grandmother had told me all about the stretch of Fifth Avenue that was known in her youth as Millionaires' Row. Her stories were sprinkled with mentions of Vanderbilts and Astors and more often than not centred on society balls that lasted from sunset till sunrise, only winding down when dawn had broken and ushered Upper East Side Cinderellas back to their townhouses. I can't recall a time before I adored Fifth Avenue. My head had been filled with stories of an age when life was golden, of mansions beyond compare and the vibrant characters who inhabited them. Granny would talk of hostesses who packed their warrens of rooms with the best and the brightest things and people that the world had to offer. The Gold Coast of the 1890s seemed a universe away from the realities of my own childhood.

I suppose there must've been a time when New York City was unknown to me, when I thought our country house in England was the centre of the earth. But I don't have great childhood memories of the country of my birth or the pastoral idyll that our family once occupied. For as long as I can remember, Fifth Avenue filled the corners of my consciousness and dominated my thoughts: it was from here that we had once ruled the world.

I can't remember a time before Central Park on Sundays, when I would slip my little gloved hand into the embrace of my fathers and hold tight as we practically skipped through the early morning crowds of shoppers and tourists. My mother is conspicuously absent from these memories. Whilst Da and I were breathing in the air and taking in the sights with a sense of unbridled delight, as if we were tourists in our own city, Mother was only mere blocks away. She was sitting alongside her great aunt in our family's usual seats at St. Bart's on Park Avenue, the ones with the prime view of the altar, second from the front. I say _our_ , however myself and Da were most definitely not included in that sentiment. Yes, I had been for tokens sake. I had sat primly by my mother's side at Easter and Christmas, when most of the congregation came to see and be seen (spirituality has always been a social event in this circle). But Da had never sat in the second row and he'd never even entered the church. After all, Charles Swan knew better than to show his face there, handsome though it was.

In defiance, he established a new tradition. Mother could have her social standing, cemented by her weekly prayers, and he got to show me the city in all its beauty. Each Sunday was different and the same. We would almost always have brunch surrounded by the gleam of The Plaza Hotel's Palm Court, where the waiters that I'd known since I was small would fuss over me and I would relish in Da's pride at my use of the right fork; of the _just so_ fold of my napkin; the way I always sat upright taking in the spectacle of the room, always appreciating everything.

'What a lovely little girl,' one of the other patrons would say. 'So well behaved.'

That's all I ever heard. _Lovely_. _Lovely_ hair, _lovely_ face, just… _lovely_. I relished the praise and took pleasure in Da's resulting grin. It was a gold star awarded for manners that I can't even remember adopting: it was as if they were somehow ingrained. Genetic, my mother would say.

And after we had dined on eggs Benedict and scraped the bottom of crystal bowls piled high with hand-cut fruit, we would take a ride around the Park in a Hansom cab. After completing our route, Da would descend from our carriage and sweep me down with chivalric flourish that never failed to make me giggle. As soon as my ballet pumps had touched the ground, he was paying the fare and giving the driver a considerable tip, manoeuvring a fifty-dollar bill out of his hand with easy grace. I was used to this smooth exchange even at five: there was always a tip to be had with Da. _A treat_ , he would say. There would be one for the doorman with the perpetual smile who guarded the gilded entry of Granny's Park Avenue building; for any waitress that ever served him; for any taxi driver, attendant or member of staff that had the fortune of crossing his path. This generosity was not for show and it wasn't done to affirm his status.

When, one Sunday morning I inquired as to why he always did this, why he seemed to give his money away so freely wherever we went, he knelt down and wrapped my hands in his.

'Never forget people on the way up Belle,' Da said softly, smiling gently at me. 'You can't take money with you.'

My five-year old self had thought the statement beyond comical. _Silly Da_ , I'd thought. Because of course you could take money with you. That's what the purse that Mummy carried was for, the one with the back to front Cs. And that's why Da always had cash handy in his wallet or folded neatly in the pocket of his suits. Come to think of it, he even kept a stack of bills tucked away in the magazine rack next to the velvet chair in the study. It was just money and it was just _there_ , newly minted and in abundance. And besides, where was Up? Did he mean heaven? Weren't we already there? Things couldn't get better or higher or more heavenly than Hansom cabs on a Sunday, could they?

But over the course of the next eighteen years or so, I began to comprehend what he had meant by _Up_. Uptown. Upper East Side. Upper Class. My mother's family were always talking about Up without even uttering the word. It went unspoken as they conversed about their summer houses and their societies and their housekeepers. Up was a way of life. And Da was just that bit beneath it, no matter how much of Manhattan he owned or the seemingly endless amounts of money that he made. Never mind that it was the brink of the 21st Century or the fact that the Swans had all made their way in the world since coming to this country mere decades ago, that our family tree now included Doctors and CEOS and people to be proud of. No. Da would never be Up enough to claim a seat in the second row at St. Bart's.

But me? I was halfway there and I could rise. All I had to do was choose.

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 _It will speed up and Edward will arrive soon enough. I'd love to hear any thoughts !_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for all the reviews, follows, faves..for taking any interest in what i write tbh! This story is a slow burn but it will be worth it, promise! Enjoy._

 **The C Word**

 _ **Before**_

 **Chapter 2. December 19, 2012**

 **Song suggestions: This Will Be Better by Rachel Portman and Walkin' On The Sun by Smash Mouth**

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The apartment building held little to no traces of the 1901 residence it had replaced. The Jacob H. Schiff mansion had been proud and decadent in a European way, with typically grand touches such as a sloping roof and mouldings in the neoclassical style all over the front. At least that's what Granny had told me as a child. She'd been to some party or other there once, as a young girl in the years leading up to the Great War. I spent most of my childhood being utterly dazzled by such tales; my brain had luxuriated in the glamour of wealth and privilege. Granny made it sound like a dream.

And so, I found myself feeling cheated as I took in the post-depression era sight before me. The mansion of Granny's youth had morphed into the type of soulless high-rise that I never took much notice of, but which disguised apartments that went for millions. The doorman was sweet at least. His white gloved hands ushered me out of the snow and inside, directing me towards the elevator. 'Top floor Miss', he instructed. Of course, it would be in the penthouse, these things always were.

Despite the lacklustre façade, the view from the top of 965 Fifth Avenue had a glory all its own. Upon exiting the elevator directly into the entrance gallery, my eyes were instantly overcome by the windows and the panoramas beyond. From up here on the eighteenth floor you could take in the expanse of the reservoir and even further: one sweep and you could see all the way to the West and South sides of Central Park. It was impressive. It was money. The interior of the apartment was less inspiring in its gaudiness and looked like every other palace in the sky. There were the standard blue and white porcelain vases, a button-back sofa in velvet that was curved like a kidney and herringbone flooring shrouded by rugs bigger than most studio apartments. The walls that weren't dominated by the skyline hosted family portraits of the new money genre by artists of no consequence- you could almost feel the quest for status in the airbrushed strokes.

The place was packed, fifty or so people I guessed. I was a lone figure amongst the crowd, who were massed together in unwelcoming huddles that continued out of the formal living room and further, into the adjoining, open plan formal dining room. Formal, everything in its place. The mix of guests was anything but straightforward: a jarring mix of artistic types speaking with buttoned up financiers, all sipping from crystal goblets rimmed with gold to the mellow tune of Smash Mouth's Walkin' On The Sun. My arrival went largely unnoticed and I felt entirely out of place and far too young altogether. Although they couldn't have been more than forty give or take, the other guests had the air of ancients, worn down by social climbing and legacy making. If the cursory glances were anything to go on, they clearly didn't have the patience for an eighteen-year-old interloper like me.

A server in a white dinner jacket complete with poinsettia boutonniere offered me a customary glass of champagne as I walked further into the room. How festive. By the time I'd made my way into the middle, almost under the arch that connected the formal spaces, my head was feeling a bit fuzzy. I lurched away from the window. The overwhelming views and the champagne and the heady soundtrack was more than a tad intoxicating. At this point I could do one of two things, I decided. Admit social defeat and turn on my heel back out into the night, or watch and wait for a lifeline to appear. I chose the latter; it was one of the things I'd always done best, embrace silence and just be…it's a talent gained from years of attending The Club with my mother, an environment where children are most certainly better seen and not heard.

I saw Him before he saw me. He was holding court in a far corner of the formal dining room where the windows met the sky, surrounded by a posse of characters. These were a mix of hangers on and true friends, most he'd known since prep school and who I knew of only by surname and reputation. You couldn't help but notice him: even if I hadn't known who he was, I would've looked. Everybody else was. He possessed the kind of fundamental magnetism that inevitably made him the focus of every room he ever entered.

The last gasps of sunset lit him perfectly, bathing him in an almost ironic golden hue. He was tall despite his nonchalant slouch, a few inches over six feet and wearing a well-cut navy suit that did nothing but promote the lithe perfection of his frame. Tailor made by Armani or some other Italian brand, I imagined. Propped up by a wall covered in predictably expensive silk Chinoiserie paper, I couldn't fully see what I knew to be the masterpiece of his face. But I appreciated his profile, Roman and sloping, with a cherubic chin that propped up a fleshy mouth. Said mouth was currently occupied with animatedly captivating his audience. He might've only been talking about something trivial but you could practically see their IQ points dissolving with every word.

His hair was thick and shot with bronze and sat neatly on top of his head, obviously tamed into submission with some product or other in a vain attempt to conceal its inherent unruliness. I'd seen his cousins at parties on the Cape and in the city; they were all a similar height and topped off with competing heads of hair so dense and unruly it reminded me of bramble, swirling this way and that. The last time I'd seen him at a wedding on Rhode Island it had been short and cropped close like a newly thatched roof.

The crystal felt slippery under my fingers. It wasn't like me, to have such an instinctive reaction to a man. Especially one I hardly knew. Christ, I didn't know him at all, not personally anyway. I did, like everyone else here and in the wider world, know most of the vital threads that weaved together the tapestry that was his life. It was hard not to, living in a society where his every move was worthy of serious news and tabloid fodder. I was attracted to him evidently, but who wouldn't be? It was just physical; you'd have to be half dead to not be attracted to a man like him. For all I knew he had an awful personality. Yes, he was probably a real bore, I decided. He had to be, otherwise it would just be cruel, what with that face and form and his family's fortune. Like most things, I thought, if it looked and seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

Turning away, I retreated twenty feet or so back into the living room. I needed to put some distance between us, needed to pull myself together. I looked about me, again nobody approached or made eye contact. Stuck up snobs. I leant against an unoccupied patch of wall in the corner of the living room: all the seats and sectionals had been claimed hours ago and I was more than fashionably late. The music was softer there and my ears unavoidably pricked, tuning in to the competing din of the conversations around me.

'Apparently it's over,' a small voice spoke, practically humming with anticipation. Its owner was perched on the arm of a club chair angled slightly away from me. I took stock of her, it was a quick process. Bottle blonde, deep Palm Beach tan, late twenties, French tipped acrylics, a princess cut diamond on her ring finger. Matching diamond eternity. I knew her type. Gold Digger.

'Or things are just as they've been for the past six years, stagnant,' came another voice, devoid of all emotion. I turned slightly away from the window, improving my view of them.

Sitting in the club chair was a woman with a face that was trying desperately to affect disinterest. She threw a glance over to the group in the corner, blue eyes that were suspiciously devoid of any lines analysed Him closely.

'God six years and no ring,' Gold Digger whispered.

Even I had to begrudgingly agree with that: a woman going so long without commitment by way of ring or property or both was unheard of in these circles.

'I know. Poor thing. Could you im- _agine_?' the other one said, spiteful pity lacing her tone.

'Nooo,' Gold Digger had obviously arrived long before me, she was on the verge of slurring.

'Don't know why she hasn't trapped him yet- '

'Mona! A baby isn't the answer.' Gold Digger sounded shocked at someone _actually_ saying out loud what many women like her _actually_ did around here, routinely and usually with complete effect. A bastard wouldn't make The Blue Book, after all.

'Yes, it is, Charlotte. The men of his family are notoriously noncommittal. She should've wised up to that reality by now,' the other one that I now knew to be Mona said this with an air of having experienced the harsh truth of this fact first hand. Interesting.

'Well, ob-viously not!' Gold Digger aka Charlotte exclaimed. 'Who knows, maybe she's as frigid as everyone says,' she took great delight in saying this and it drew a malicious smile from her conspirator.

'Hmm. At least he's here alone, single or not. I can't stand that Lauren; she thinks she's so mysterious when in fact she's rather boring. There's nothing worse than a bore. Poor thing thinks she's _special_ ,' Mona said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

'She must be doing something right,' Charlotte said with resignation.

'I hear otherwise,' Mona stated, voice growing hushed. ' _Anyway_ , he was in college when they met, we all do stupid things in college that we come to regret in due course. And it looks like it's playing out now. They've hit the skids just like I knew they would. There, I said it,' Mona gulped her wine down desperately as if toasting to her prophecy, willing it to come true.

'Maybe you're right,' Charlotte sighed, twisting her rings, making the diamonds flare in the dim light.

'Charlotte, darling, I always am.'

Mona made a move to get up then and Charlotte followed dutifully, a look of devotion to her mistress etched across her pointed face. I recognised that loyalty, knew it from the way that our spaniel Remy would follow my mother for scraps.

They passed me on their pilgrimage to the dining room and threw me matching unwelcoming glances. I could practically hear their minds whirring. Who was I and what was my business here? And more importantly, was I competition?

Annoyed with my impenetrable smile, they continued walking and my suspicions were confirmed: Mona wore a wedding band alongside a blindingly tacky solitaire diamond. This room was filled with their sort, the ones who thought they had a claim on him even though they most certainly didn't. For them, he represented a lost opportunity, a glittering future that wouldn't come to pass and one that was never, in truth, a viable possibility. Never mind the small inconvenience of their husbands.

I was annoyed with myself for even paying their conversation any mind, but I hadn't been able to stop myself from listening. Since being away I'd missed out on all the Island's gossip. Though, it seemed like nothing had changed since summer: there had been no great moral evolution on the Upper East Side. As usual, his dating life was still an ongoing debate, it would inevitably be until someone nabbed his mother's ring. Those 7 carats were the prize of a lifetime for the women in this room, hell, the whole country. Only time would tell.

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 _We'll meet Him properly next chapter. I'll definitely be posting weekly, hopefully more than once in future. Chapters will be varying lengths, there will be drama and angst tempered by sweetness (we all need a good helping of that these days) Hope you all enjoy, look out for a The Journey update this weekend. XOX_


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